Page 79 of Someone Knows

I can’t believe I didn’t remember that. At least not before I read that new chapter last night. After, though, I couldn’t stop the memories from flooding back. At 5 a.m., I gave up on trying to sleep and brewed a pot of coffee. Caffeine didn’t help. Certainly not the four cups I drank. It only made my heart race faster and my head spin so violently that I had to sit down so I wouldn’t fall.

I was pregnant.

Pregnant.

Withhischild.

The thought makes my stomach roil, and the coffee threatens to come back up.

I’ve gotten used to the idea that Jocelyn and I are the same person. Butthis. . . this I willneverget used to. No way. Not possible.

Every time I closed my eyes last night, vivid memories rushed back. One in particular felt so real that at one point, I barricaded the bedroom door with my dresser.

It was the week after I’d gone to the clinic. I went to meet Mr. Sawyer at the motel at our usual time. I’d been anxious about telling him I was pregnant, afraid of what his reaction might be. He had a wife, a small child. I couldn’timagine he would want a baby with me. But he surprised me, told me he was happy, that we could run away together and raise our family. We wouldn’t have to hide anymore. Texas, he said—Galveston, a small coastal town where you caught a breeze in the summer, unlike this suffocating part of Louisiana.

It was my dream come true. He was so gentle that night, so caring and warm. We made love for the first time. Of course we’d had sex before—the dirty kind, the kind where he called me a whore as he pumped inside me from behind. That’s what he liked, what got him off. But that night, I was on my back. He looked into my eyes and told me I was beautiful, how beautiful our child was going to be. It was such a drastic change. I should’ve known it was too good to be true. But the most dangerous lies are the kind an innocent personwantsto be true.

That night, we walked out of the motel room together, something else we never did. I remember smiling, thinking it was the beginning of a fresh start, one far away from Minton Parish and my alcoholic mother. But then . . . I felt it. A hand at my back, a forceful shove. And all of my hopes and dreams went flying along with me, down the sixteen stairs that led from the second floor to the parking lot below.

I remember lying on the blacktop, him kicking me and telling me to get up.

I remember the pain in my arm and head, a bloody chin.

Somehow, I drove Mom’s car home anyway. My vision was so blurred from tears, it was a wonder I made it. The next morning I woke to blood-soaked sheets. The cramps were so bad that I walked doubled over in pain. Mom hadn’t come home from the night before, and I didn’t want to explain what had happened to anyone else, so I went back to the clinic a few towns over alone. I’d miscarried. I also had a concussion and a fractured ulna, but nothing hurt more than the betrayal I’d suffered. That day was the beginning of the end. I just didn’t know it yet. Because like most abuse victims,I went back for more. I took the flowers he brought the next week. I accepted the apology and promise that it would never happen again. I believed him when he said he would change.

I blink back to the present moment, pulling myself from the past, only to realize I’m holding my stomach. It hurts.Cramps.My period must be due. Or maybe the line between reality and illusion is blurring so much that I’m manifesting pain. I don’t even know anymore.

I force myself into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and let the hot water sluice over my knotted shoulders with my eyes closed. My mind wanders. But not far. Now I’m back to wondering how anyone knows about the pregnancy. I’ve never told a soul. Not ever. Not Ivy or my mother. I’d been too ashamed to admit the truth. To this day, I lie when I go to the gynecologist for a checkup, and I scribble a big fat zero in the box on the medical history form that asks how many times you’ve been pregnant. The only person who knew washim. I suppose the people at the clinic knew I’d miscarried, too. But that place was fifty miles outside of town and twenty years have gone by. Ithasto be Noah. All roads keep leading back to him. Maybe his father kept a journal? Wrote down the sick shit he did to me? Nothing else makes sense.

I dry off, get dressed, and decide I need some fresh air. The house has no food, and I can’t remember the last time I ate. So I drive over to the bakery in town and order a buttered roll and an orange juice. A few minutes later, I hear the woman behind the counter.

“Ma’am?”

I blink a few times. She’s looking at me funny, so I think maybe it’s not the first time she’s tried to get my attention.

“Sorry, yes?”

“I said, that’ll be six dollars, please.”

“Of course. Sure.”

I dig money out of my purse and pay, wait for the woman to hand over the white bag. After, I sit in the carand force half the juice down, eat a few bites of the roll. I’m just about to start the engine, figure out where I’m going next, when I look up and spot a red truck.Noah.At least I think it’s him, though plenty of people have pickups, especially in the South. It’s parked a block up at the Shell station, next to the pump. I hold my breath and wait. Sure enough, thirty seconds later, Noah ambles along. He climbs back into his truck and starts to pull away. I rush to follow.

Is it a coincidence that he’s here, where I am? There’s only one gas station in town, and it is about the time most people leave for work. But nothing is what it seems with the Sawyers. Either way, I follow. Or maybe I’m being led. I don’t know anymore. But I wait until two cars are between us and he’s already a half mile down the road before pulling out. The route he takes is familiar. It’s the same one I took yesterday. Noah must be heading to his office.

As I drive, I stare straight ahead. I can see the back of his head through the rear window, and I keep asking myself the same question over and over.

How does he know?

How does he freaking know?

The exits in this part of the state are spread miles apart. I’m about to pass the last one before he’ll get off for his office, when I make a rash decision to get off the highway. Crossing two lanes, I ignore the car horn blaring behind me and swerve to make the exit ramp. I catch one last glimpse of the red truck up ahead before I lose sight. My heart races as I pull up to a red light at a four-way intersection, a plan already taking form.

The next exit is at least fifteen miles. Noah can’t get off until then. Even if he turns around immediately after getting off, he’ll still be thirty miles behind me. That’s twenty minutes, minimum, even at the hurried speed he drives. And chances are, he’s not turning around the second he gets off. He’s going to work, probablywill stay awhile.

The light in front of me turns green. I make a left and another sharp left and then nail the gas to merge back on the highway going the opposite direction I just came from.

I need to know whatelsehe knows.

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